Bye Bye Beautiful

It’s not the tree that forsakes the flower
But the flower that forsakes the tree
Someday I`ll learn to love these scars
Still fresh from the red-hot blade of your words

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Broken dolls, broken toys, even Satanism attracts them. Actually, the darker and deeper the pit, the more of them buried in it. Some people think that the mere switching of labels and ideologies will cure them of their emotional issues. When they realize that Jesus hates them, they start searching for love in Wicca or in some New Age bullshit. If they don’t find love in Wicca, they turn to Thelema. If they don’t find love in Thelema, they turn to Atheism or LaVeyan Satanism. If LaVeyan Satanism doesn’t fulfill their need for love, they turn to theistic Satanism or the ONA thing. If they find that the theistic Satanism or the ONA thing don’t love them, they fly to some other mystical or pseudo-mystical mambo jambo. The usual reason is: People are bad, they don’t like me here. Perhaps, they will like me if I “reinvent” myself. Sometimes, those broken dolls return to Christianity as new-born Christians, ready to preach the gospel of love to everyone, if only to drown out their own inner demons.

Meanwhile, the tumor of self-hatred grows and grows, feeding regularly on ever-present guilt and shame. External circumstances and other people merely activate what is already festering inside.

There are consequences for even minor kind of non-compliance. Conformity is often rewarded but defiance is punished. Always. Whether you go against social norms, someone’s expectations or your own habits or principles. There are no exceptions to this and there will never be, even if you think it should be otherwise. As one smart guy once wrote “Life sucks, and yes, people do suck. Fuck forbid you also suck... The devil is not an advocate of pleasure, at least, not without tribulation. One must earn their horns and hooves. Endure some of what Hell has to offer, and baby if you do it right, you’ll come back on fire, and smokin’ hot.” The social rejects sometimes join the Satanic or other avant-garde groups, temples or orders expecting to be rewarded for their naughtiness and freakishness, to get some cookies for their Satanic rebellion. Perhaps, the Devil was lying when he lured you to the dark side promising cookies.

*      *      *

It’s really amusing when some ONA kiddies, when they feel unloved and unappreciated, get all neurotic and have an emotional meltdown. For the purpose of this blog, let’s assume their all too embarrassing meltdown is for real. Then they start complaining about Uncle Myatt being an asshole, so full of himself and surrounding himself with ass-kissers. Now, what if they are right? Suppose Uncle Myatt, despite all of his poems and mystical writings, is really an asshole, has always been an asshole and has never stopped being an asshole. Why should the guy who is said to have founded the Satanic order be like Virgin Mary? Especially if we take into account that many Holy Fathers of the Catholic Church were most perverted libertines, it is quite strange that some expect Satanism to attract guys with the heart of a dove. Satan was an asshole himself, a pathetic fuck, who refused to serve in heaven because he was… so full of himself. So he was cast into the fiery pit where he was served and adored by his minions, still being proud and arrogant.

I can’t really blame the chap if he likes others adoring him. I would go even further and claim that he founded the Order of Nine Angles for the sole purpose of having his sinisterly-numinous Ass worshiped. If someone does his job of ass-kissing well, no wonder he is rewarded. Now let’s push even further and assume that all the orders, Satanic or otherwise, exist only for the worship of their founders’ asses. Let’s now entertain even braver conspiracy theory that Anton LaVey was in fact a Christian and invented Satanism to con gullible people who thought of themselves as special snowflakes but, in fact, were searching for the peer approval. Would any reasonable person trust a bald guy, with the goat’s beard, who was moreover stinking like a foul goat?

Ass-kissing is a true Satanic ritual of initiation, kinda like the one the witches at Sabbath were practicing when they were kissing the Devil/Goat’s ass in a truly religious frenzy and sexual ecstasy. The Devil is no gentleman, he’s no aristocrat, don’t be fooled. He has no manners, he’s a foul stinking and evil creature having no consideration for anyone. Even old guys indulging in “mystical peregrinations” and Greek translations can be perverted sociopaths. To err is human.

Does that a lil bit exaggerated picture strike a nerve with you, dear reader? It’s because you deny darkness in yourself and in other people. You focus only on the light, ignoring the shadows. Thus you miss the Whole that is a human being. You idealize people because you need to have some perfect and pure idol, a sacred cow that you can put on a pedestal and worship. You are a natural follower who gets furious when your idol doesn’t live up to your sentimental expectations. You are disappointed and denigrate the mythos because you were deluding yourself that the real people were as beautiful and fucking romantic as their mythos. The mythos exists for its ow sake. It’s real as long as it continues to inspire. And real people… well, they probably suck. As you suck. As I suck. As we all suck. Enlightenment is nothing else than shattering your illusions.

 

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The Circle of the Fallen

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Rene Magritte

The whole idea of mutual admiration societies and inner circles within the established cults in the context of Satanism makes me raise my eyebrows. I can understand one can set up a cool kids’ club or join one to peddle one’s agenda but more often than not it’s just an excuse for seeking validation, often at the cost of one’s own interests. How the hell (pun intended) can one claim to embody the archetype of Satan and, at the same time, seek peer approval? Or try hard to please people in order to join their clique? How the hell can one claim to be sinister and, at the same time, follow the Master and Mistress and take what they say at face value? How the hell can one claim to express the genuine essence of Satanism while jumping on the hate bandwagon?

Milton’s Satan was kicked out of the most prestigious and elitist club, called Heaven. In spite of that, he remained proud and arrogant, and defiant. Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. So how can you act against your own interests or betray your own Self just to win someone’s approval, especially if that someone behaves in a rather tasteless manner? People can’t even lie properly. They will bad-mouth you and, if that doesn’t work, they will shower you with insincere praises and dishonest compliments. I like you but, please, talk shit about person X or person Y. You have to be totally deluded to accept unfounded praise, to fancy yourself a special snowflake, even more special than other special snowflakes. All people are the same in their belief they are unique and better than others.

How full of shit one must be to judge another person after one meeting or, worse, on the basis of their writings? And those delusional people claim to have the skill of “esoteric empathy”, whatever the fuck that means for them. You’re not full of wisdom, you’re full of shit, trying to figure out the nature of the person by the way they write. It’s easy to categorize people, make assumptions and cast unfounded judgements left and right. Who the fuck cares about the personality of the writer? Maybe he’s a total asshole, maybe she’s a stupid bitch. Who knows? And who cares? If you write well, then you write well. If your writings are lame, then they are lame. Your life is your business. If your judgement of other people is questionable, then you’re fooling no one that you know what empathy is.

If I appreciate someone’s writings or artwork, I have no problem with admitting it. I don’t think my crown will fall because of that even if someone writes better than me. The character of the writer/artist is irrelevant just like whether I personally like him/her or not, whether we are buddies or not. Who cares about your drama, about your personal bullshit, your jealousy and your inner “esoteric order”? It’s as exciting as the shit in a plastic bag, a herd of sheep patting each other on the back, a prime example of mindless conformity.

 

.:. Shit .:.

 

You know who you are. A puppet on the strings. How can you cut them off if you don’t see them? Day by day, you’re given shit to eat till your brain becomes full of shit; other people’s shit that you absorb uncritically and then parrot it, the shit of your mentors, gurus and priests that you worship, the politicians you vote for, the experts you revere, the writers and poets you’re a fan of. You bask in other people’s glory because you have no thoughts or ideas of your own.

You think you’re a special snowflake, that you’re better than others but you’re one of the many guinea pigs here. The rhetoric about the elite is to lull you to sleep, you gullible idiot. Meanwhile, the people behind the glass observe how much shit you consume and what it does to your mind. Other people mold you in their own image because you’re too stupid to stay yourself or reinvent yourself. And you have a nerve to call that enlightenment.

There will be no enlightenment. Shit – that’s all you will get. It has always been like that and will remain like that forever. What sits there in your mind, whatever you think, say and do is other people’s work, not yours. A brush and a canvas are not a painter but that doesn’t mean they are not useful. Perhaps, one day you will wake up and notice the prison of mirages all around you. When they are gone, there will be Nothing left.

Sexy Milgram

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Today’s news gave me a laugh. A nearly seventy-year-old sexual maniac decided to prey on young female students at the university in Poznań. He put on smart clothes, took a suitcase and introduced himself as a professor of anthropology doing a scientific research. He led naive girls one by one to a secluded place, gave them a survey to complete and then asked them to gradually undress themselves so that he could measure their muscle temperature. Each of the confused girls eagerly took off her clothes and let the bogus professor meticulously examine her naked body. The professor then wrote down the “results” in his papers and kindly thanked the girls for their contribution to the development of science.

It turned out that the guy “worked” at several universities and colleges in and near Poznań. When the girls decided to speak up, the police arrested the predator on the grounds of sexual abuse. Then, some psychologists commented on the whole affair; that we have a natural tendency to conform, that we usually trust and obey the authority, that the guy was very persuasive, that his professor disguise was like a magic spell, that the confused victim is easy to manipulate blah blah blah…

Or perhaps, the girls fancied some anal fisting and simply needed a good excuse.

Oops! Did I Hurt Your Feelings, Baby?

I wanted to test people and see how easy it was to push their buttons… they fell into every little game that i started.

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What would this blog be without cats and online douchebaggery? So let’s go. Here it is:

Recently, some douche joined the “sinister” facebook group spamming it with the bullshit and trolling the hell out of it. There would be nothing unusual about it (after all, there are plenty of such types in the cyber space) if it wasn’t for the reaction he caused. As much as I love the online arguments and flame-wars, this time I decided to sit back and watch. To each their own, but debating a person more ignorant than me doesn’t really turn me on. It’s a ROI thing. There is nothing to gain from such experience. You educate the stupid but learn nothing in exchange. There is also no satisfaction from winning the discussion. It’s like smashing a mouse against the wall.

But who am I to judge the kids playing in the sandbox, especially that I enjoy throwing sand myself? It’s all nice and dandy provided all kids have fun. This time only one kid had fun, the others… Well… here is a problem. The guy could have been banned, ignored, laughed off or responded to in a cold, pedantic and unemotional manner. Instead, the “sinister” types threw a tantrum, calling the guy names, telling him how much they hate him, crying he’s destroying the group and leaving one by one in the epic display of butthurt.

I nearly choked on my popcorn. It’s really funny to see the wannabe Satanists or sinister folks stand beside themselves with fury and show self-righteous indignation. And the guy… despite being weak in a fight on arguments, is a master of manipulation, knowing how and when to push people’s buttons. Because psychological warfare is a game to be played without any rules, except one; making your opponent leave the ring with the blood dripping from his nose or his sore butt. The arguments be damned.

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Richard Moult

Are our ideas and beliefs the fancy hats that we wear and change when the mood strikes us? Or are we like the fat chick trying to squeeze herself in a tight swimming costume? Sometimes, you’re trying too hard to fit in this or that identity label, this or that belief system, this or that peer group. Ideas and beliefs are the mere tools you use to progress and to expand your mind. The time comes when these ideas are no longer useful, you discard them and move on. Just like you throw away the old clothes. You are not your ideas or your beliefs. It would be a folly to cling desperately to an old party dress and scream “No, I won’t throw it away! It’s me! This dress is me!”

There is so much talk in Satanism about an adversary and herd-conformity, but one would be surprised how many people need the approval of others, the praise and respect of their peers and belonging to some exclusive and elitist club. It’s nicer and easier this way, because everyone, without exception, prefers praises to criticism. It’s very hard to thrive when confronted with opposition and loneliness. But how illusory are the temporary laurels you get from your fans.

Should I bend to your standards? Should I conform to your house rules? Should I satisfy your expectations? Yes, of course, as long as I live in your hotel/motel. But when I check out, damn you and your rules, and your expectations. Your hotel or motel is one of the many I’m passing by on my way home.

So coming back to our little motherfucker. He knew whom to troll; people who worship the tools, who think they are special snowflakes because of that, that they are the elite. If you worship a pentagram or an O9A sigil, then you can as well go to church and prostrate yourself before Jesus. Does it really matter where you sing your Hallelujah?

Mirror Mirror

“You said you were a fairy princess
You said you were a shooting star
You said we’d go to Bora Bora
Now look at where the fuck we are”

Please, come in Mr Smith, said the doorman taking my coat and hat, Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment. I looked around the shabby room bewildered. The golden chandeliers and Persian carpets, this is how it looked like in the advertisement. Dreamland. Let your dreams fly on wings. They must be fucking kidding me…

Thank you, I’d rather stand. I began pacing round the room. When she calls me in, I’ll be ready. Excuse me, when is Miss LaVie going to call me in? I asked the doorman after an hour passed. I have no idea, sir. Could you ask her? Of course, sir. He came back in a minute. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment, Mr Smith. Meanwhile, please make yourself comfortable. I was sitting in an armchair while the clock on the wall was counting hours. Its sound was getting louder and louder. Finally, I rushed into her room infuriated…

Oh Mr Smith. Welcome Mr smith! Here you are at last. I was waiting for you, thought you changed your mind, she said smiling. I… I… I…I’ve been here all the time, I stuttered confused. Never mind, I have a brilliant offer for you. Let me see… and she began searching through the papers on her desk. Fuck! Where did I put it? She looked in her drawer. No, not here, perhaps on the shelves… Finally, she came back to her desk. Mr Smith, I don’t know how to say it. So damn awkward. There’s been terrible misunderstanding. I’m so sorry, but but but…. I don’t have anything for you. Perhaps, if you dropped in next month…

You fucking stupid bitch.

I’m sitting alone in my quiet empty bedroom. My grey face is looking at me from the mirror. Once again the king is naked. I wanted you to tell me how great I am. I hoped you would comfort me and say I’m someone special, better than anyone else. You shut the door on me, you cruel life. You called me an average Joe, gave me an ordinary job, ordinary friends and common pastimes. You made me look like anyone else. I worked so hard; studies and three part-time jobs only to see my dreams shattered. Mirror mirror on the wall, how can I even look at you now?

The easiest way to escape from oneself is to become someone else…

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo for our star! People are clapping their hands, cheering and throwing confetti. My Mistress is whispering praises to my ear. I’m everybody. I’m everything. I’m special. No gain without pain. I had to pay. The price was well… reasonable.

Sing me your Story

… One day the Emperor received a large package labeled “The Nightingale.”

“This must be another book about my celebrated bird,” he said. But it was not a book. In the box was a work of art, an artificial nightingale most like the real one except that it was encrusted with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. When it was wound, the artificial bird could sing one of the nightingale’s songs while it wagged its glittering gold and silver tail. Round its neck hung a ribbon inscribed: “The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is a poor thing compared with that of the Emperor of China.”…

“Now let’s have them sing together. What a duet that will be,” said the courtiers.

So they had to sing together, but it didn’t turn out so well, for the real nightingale sang whatever came into his head while the imitation bird sang by rote.

“That’s not the newcomer’s fault,” said the music master. “He keeps perfect time, just as I have taught him.”

Then they had the imitation bird sing by itself. It met with the same success as the real nightingale, and besides it was much prettier to see, all sparkling like bracelets and breastpins. Three and thirty times it sang the selfsame song without tiring. The courtiers would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said the real nightingale should now have his turn. Where was he? No one had noticed him flying out the open window, back to his home in the green forest.

“But what made him do that?” said the Emperor.

All the courtiers slandered the nightingale, whom they called a most ungrateful wretch…

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all Your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale one never knows what to expect, but with this artificial bird everything goes according to plan.
The real nightingale had been banished from the land…
(from “The Nightingale”)

Can a bird sing only the song it knows? Or can it learn a new song? Many people sing the same old shit over and over again, usually the same old shit they were programmed with. Sometimes, they call it education. Education, as they mean it, is stuffing your mind with other people’s ideas. So they leave their schools and mindlessly repeat the stuff they were taught.

Such minds rarely change even if they change the label. So you have former Christians replacing their God with a new god, be it science, experts or whatever. The same old song, the same old shit, the same old habits and the same mind bowing to the authority in the utmost display of conformity.

If you’re not the author of the music and lyrics, then whose song are you singing? Sure as hell, it’s not yours. Many would wish you to conform to their so-called standards, to sing what they want you to sing. A mechanical bird is more predictable and easier to control. It doesn’t have moods. Would you sacrifice your freedom of thought for someone’s approval?

The Chicken Yard

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There is this saying “Sticking feathers up your butt doesn’t make you a chicken.” I would choose a less mediocre bird here, like a peacock or an eagle. A chicken can pretend to be an eagle or a peacock but the mask falls off when you ask the motherfucker to fly. It’s a sad spectacle to watch.

Is a label important? What does changing a label mean without a change in your life, without getting rid of the stuff you were programmed with? There is a price to pay for living your life the way you want and for trying to think for yourself. That price is most often the disapproval of others and rejection. Sometimes, it can mean losing your friends, your job, even family and in some shitty circumstances even your life. However, if you swim with with the current, you’ll never be a good swimmer.